


Just Because I Left Doesn't Mean That I'm Not Still There

by witchkings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, M/M, Mild Gore, Second person POV, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29354070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchkings/pseuds/witchkings
Summary: You are not a villain. You may swath yourself in colours opposed to what others deem heroic, you may directly oppose those heroes. You may be a minority, may be called malevolent, evil, cruel, murderer, devil, beast. You are not. You are this world's true saviour.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Just Because I Left Doesn't Mean That I'm Not Still There

**Author's Note:**

> A writing experiment, if you will, inspired by the song Welly Boots by The Amazing Devil. Hope you enjoy, lemme know what you think :)

Often, there is nothing. You dare not call it void for you have no memories of that space, but if you had you suppose they would be happy ones even for the discrimination of your kin. If only because you still had a sort of potent capacity to call your own. A future.   
  
You are not wrong just because you operate on another spectrum of sound. Your waves are shorter, your amplitudes higher, sharper, abruptly defined by the lack of solid borders to your way of thinking. You are beyond, you are more. An oversight on your father's side, but not wrong. Simply miraculous.  
  
You are not a monster. To them, their blood reeks tangy and of metals as it slips sweetly down your throat. It nourishes you as the weed the hare, the hare the man. You are not wrong, you are above.  
  
You are not mute. At least you have not always been and you would do well to remember this. Once upon a time you had all the blue prints. You knew how to carve out cavities in your chest for air, you could will your lips to part and make shapes. You might still have vocal cords, there in your throat through which naught passes. If one were to carve it open, what would they find? Rotting strings of their remains or perfectly intact organs, waiting for the day you find it in you to produce sound again. Is your decay physical or is it mental?  
  
You are not an abomination just because abandonment of physicality has left your shell in a state of disintegration. Skin is still skin even as flakes pooling by your feet. Hands are still hands even charred to uselessness. Lips are still lips even cracked, peeling back to reveal chipped and serrated teeth that tear flesh easier than bread. Life is still life even confined to these dungeons.  
  
You are not impotent no matter what reality would imply. It is warped, this world, twisted to evade your might. The hammer trembles in your hands not because you lack the strength to wield it, but because the earth quakes in reverence. Your body will not heal because it lacks the power to do so, but because the atmosphere blocks it, too laden with the sour stench of the fear of the Children. You are not impotent, your spirit is barricaded.  
  
You are not a villain. You may swath yourself in colours opposed to what others deem heroic, you may directly oppose those heroes. You may be a minority, may be called malevolent, evil, cruel, murderer, devil, beast. You are not. You are this world's true saviour.   
  
You are not blind. There simply is nothing to see in this burrowed abode, on this throne of no light. Were you to conjure flame, you would find yourself surrounded by bones and dust made of them. The fire would not reach towards the stairway you do not remember carving nor where it leads. That is well. It is not like your atrophied legs could carry you there anyway.  
  
You are not ugly. Not even the deepest depths of despair could make you so. No amount of scars or unhealed wounds, no burns nor self-applied modifications. No head of stringy hair, no crooked, debauched crown. You are as you are. Magnificent. Beautiful.  
  
You are not dying nor forfeiting your birth right. You may cower in darkness and be kept in the dark. You may need this respite, this isolation, but it is finite and incomplete and you will emerge from it, a vision of tyranny too stunning to behold.  
  
You do not have a voice, neither inside your cracked skull nor to carry an order. But somehow you have thoughts, you command your forces. You try so hard to make sense of it and it is not until your voice says it aloud that you finally understand.   
  
Do not worry, it says, I will always be here, right beside you.   
  
Do not worry, it says and something grazes your cheek, soft like falling snow and you know that analogy comes from your voice as well because you have no concept of what snow even is.   
  
Do not worry, it says, I will speak for you. So, you let it and you wait for the end.  
  
You are not unlovable. You are unloving, harsh, sharp at the edges and fuzzy inside, but not unlovable. They will come for you and they will tell you you are. I beg of you only this one thing. Remember that I love you.   
  
The voice ceases.  
  
---


End file.
